


The Cross Country Raid

by RKMacBride



Series: Rats and Foxes [2]
Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: 3rd Recon, Chess, Desert, Episode Style, Gen, Major Character Injury, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10466079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RKMacBride/pseuds/RKMacBride
Summary: The Germans have a cache of gold in the Qattara Depression, but at the moment it lies on the Allies' side of the line. Who can get to it first?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Why this story? Because nobody gets to win ALL the time... 
> 
> "3rd Recon" is my tag for stories that take place primarily within Dietrich's company.
> 
> This story was originally published in the multi-fandom genzine _Of Dreams and Schemes_.
> 
> [NOTE: (Edited May 2017) I've rewritten the chess-playing scene; I was never happy with it before, but now I think I've worked out the problems with it. Enjoy.]

_Victory is sweetest for those who have known defeat._

_—Unknown_

_It is the spirit of the men who follow and of the man who leads that gains the victory._

_—George S. Patton_  


            Hauptmann Hans Dietrich, _Companie_ 4, 3rd Panzer Reconnaissance, sat in his HQ tent attempting to draft a letter while ignoring the wind and sand blowing by outside.  The letter had to be worded very carefully, so that his bizarre request for equipment would be considered as a bold stroke and highly creative, as opposed to the ravings of a man who'd been in Libya too long.  He absently gnawed on his lower lip, while thinking of how to phrase the idea that had come to him.  It needed to sound logical and persuasive without sounding too presumptuous, particularly as it depended on favors from those in high places.

            " _Herr Hauptmann_?" came a voice from the entrance.  It was his recently-appointed company clerk, Friedrich Arnheiter. 

            " _Kommen Sie herein_ ," Dietrich replied, beckoning the young man inside.  "What is it?"

            "The new supplies have come... or some of them, anyway.  They finally sent us another new _Kübelwagen_ ; of course it's still grey from the factory."

            "Of course.  Have the men in the motor pool paint it."

            "That's the problem, _mein Herr_. Which side of it shall we paint?" It sounded like he was joking, but Arnheiter's expression was quite serious.

            Dietrich frowned.  "The outside?" he asked hopefully.

            The corporal shook his head, apologetic. "There isn't enough paint for the whole car, sir. What shall we do?"

            The captain sighed.  "Paint it in spots, then, like light and shadows.  Like a giraffe.  No, wait a moment."  He thought about it, visualizing the terrain and vegetation in this area.  Any shadows would be cast by grasses. "Not spots— make stripes, like a zebra. And while you're on the radio this afternoon, find out if Hauptmann Müller in _Companie_ 3 has any spare tan or yellow paint.  Also, make out a requisition for more paint, and I'll sign it."

            " _Zu Befehl._ " Arnheiter chuckled softly.  He had known that Dietrich would think of something.

            "One more thing, while you're here," the officer said, handing his clerk the rough draft of the letter.  "Read this.  What do you think?"

            Arnheiter read the letter standing there, nodding as he went and wondering about the extremely cautious wording.  When he got to the sentence that ended, "... _zwanzig Männer, die schilaufen können,_ " he looked up, wondering if his captain was playing a joke on him.  "I don't understand, _mein Herr_.  You need twenty men who can  ski?"

  <<<<<>>>>>

 

            "All right, Troy, here's where the gold cache is," explained Captain Davies, pointing to the map.  "That spot is on our side of the line now, in Allied territory, so we're going to send men to go get it.  The Germans buried it in the only accessible spot in the middle of this sand sea, and there's only one approach to it that's passable with wheeled transport.  You and your men are to hold that approach, because it's certain that Jerry is going to try to get in there before we do.  That cache of gold is what they use to bribe and/or bargain with the desert tribes; without it, they don't have much leverage, so we want to get it away from them before the front line shifts and it ends up on their side again."

            "Why can't we take the gold out ourselves?  With two jeeps, it wouldn't be hard."

            "I thought of that, too, but no.  You see, we don't know exactly where they've buried it, and searching for it yourselves would waste time and leave you too vulnerable to attack.  No, Counter-Intelligence is sending in about twenty men to do the job, but it'll be a few days before they get there.  Your job is just to hold that approach and don't let the Germans get through.   And keep an eye out for aircraft—it'd be practically suicidal, but if they’re desperate enough, they might even try parachuting troops in to recover that gold."  He frowned.  "I hate to tell you, Troy, but that means stay put.  Don't go chasing off after that Dietrich fellow, or even Rommel himself.  Don't let yourself get decoyed away from there.  That gold coin and bullion is the only bargaining chip they have, to get the tribesmen to cooperate with them; they might try all kinds of crazy stuff to get your attention diverted. "

            Troy nodded.  "Right.  We know all about diversion tactics...don't worry, we won't budge."

            Before long, he would find himself regretting that promise.

 

                                                                       <<<<<>>>>>

**Afrika Korps HQ, Benghazi**

            General Erwin Rommel paused in his outer office as his adjutant was reading and sorting the mail.  "Anything interesting?" he inquired.

            "Not especially, _Herr General_.  But there's a letter about recovering that cache of gold in the Qattara Depression—" he laughed.  "He says it's workable, but I think he's been out in the sun too long.  This _Spaßvogel_[1] wants to go get it on  skis!  And he had the nerve to include a requisition form!"

            Well, it sounded original, at least.  "Who wrote the letter?"

            "A captain in 3rd Panzer Reconnaissance named, what is it... Dietrich."

            "Let me have the letter; I remember him.  He's young, that one, but very bright.  I would not dismiss any idea of his so quickly."

            "Very well, _mein Herr_."  If the General wanted to waste his own time, that was his business.  The adjutant fished the letter out from the stack of mail and handed it over, as Rommel went into his office and closed the door.

                                                                       <<<<<>>>>>

            "You said what?" yelped Konrad Genscher, incredulous.  "Are you mad?  I don't believe it!"

            "I asked _Herr Hauptmann_ ," repeated Arnheiter with a grin, "which side of the car he wanted us to paint.  You should have seen his face."  He couldn't help chuckling quietly.

            "And he said zebra stripes?" Genscher repeated, frowning. That did not sound like anything the captain would have said.

            "He did.  So, get busy and paint it, eh?"

            "Why not you?  You’re the one who asked him, after all," the Bavarian said as he finished his portion of pea soup

            "Because I’m the clerk now. I’m not in the motor pool anymore," said Arnheiter after his last mouthful of sausage.  It was terrible sausage, dreadful, nothing like the succulent, juicy roasted sausages—smoked Thuringian _bratwurst_ —the street vendors used to sell in his boyhood in Ilmenau, but it was better than the Italians’ tinned spaghetti. That wasn’t saying much. At least the pea soup wasn’t too bad; not like his _Tante_ Trudi’s, but about the same as Wehrmacht pea soup anywhere else he’d been.  "I’d better hurry up. He sent a letter to HQ yesterday afternoon, right after I asked about painting the car, and he's practically sitting on hot coals[2] waiting for the answer.  If I'm late back, I'll catch it hot."

            "What about tonight, some _Puffspiel_ , eh?  I finally got Willi to give me my board back."  Chess was Arnheiter's passion, but Genscher loathed it; his preferred pastime was backgammon.

            Arnheiter shrugged.  " _Ich weiß nicht._   It depends on when he hears from HQ."  He slapped his tentmate's shoulder cheerfully.  "If it's early enough, I will."

            "Oh, here, I nearly forgot."  The black-haired little Bavarian reached into his pocket for a folded piece of newspaper.  "It came today in my letter."

            His friend beamed at him, grateful.  "Thank you.  Perhaps tonight I shall have a chance to get to it."                                           

 

            Dietrich was alone in the HQ tent when Arnheiter returned from the mess tent.  "How was dinner?" the captain asked him.

            Arnheiter shrugged.  "The same as yesterday—pea soup and bad sausages.  No word yet, _mein Herr_?"

            "None."  Dietrich raised an eyebrow.  "I begin to think that _Herr General_ never saw the letter.  If the adjutant read it, and simply discarded it, then the Allies can help themselves to that cache of gold because I cannot think of any other way to get to it.  The sand for twenty miles around is too unstable to drive on; the only other way would be horses or possibly camels.  But camel trains are not quiet, and without the gold we have no way to get the camels,  or the horses.  And even for horses, the terrain is very dangerous. Their small hooves sink too deeply; I doubt any tribesman in his right mind would lend us twenty good mounts if he knew where we would take them.  They often value their horses more highly than their wives."

            "I've seen some of their wives, sir,"  his clerk replied with a wry smile.  "I can't say I blame them."

            "Then you haven't seen the right ones, Arnheiter.  Some of them are very beautiful."  Dietrich was pleased; a bond was developing between himself and this quiet young man. It had been a long time since he'd had a really reliable clerk and radioman, and Arnheiter was not only a first-rate worker, but good company as well. Now that he was freed from the bullying and harassment he’d endured from a sergeant in his old unit, his naturally cheerful disposition had begun to emerge.  Not only that, but he'd proved to have a fine sense of humor and a clever wit, as shown by that question about which side of the car to paint.  True, he still winced at Bergmann's bellowing, but he was beginning to recognize that the lieutenant's bark was much worse than his bite.  "You realize, it may be some time before we hear from HQ," he explained.  "It may be a rather long night, and dull for you.  I can spare you one sheet of fresh paper, if you'd like to write a letter home.  Or, if you like, you may see if there are any papers in the rubbish that are clean on one side, if you want to do some sketching.  It does not matter to me, as long as you are awake and ready to act on the orders that we get.  If anything is to be done at all, it must be done swiftly."

           

Arnheiter considered this, and reached into his pocket.  "Then, _mein Herr_ , if I may..." He drew out a clipping from a newspaper and a leather case which opened up to reveal a small chessboard about seven inches on a side, with flat wooden pieces stamped with symbols representing the different chessmen.  "Konrad Genscher's sister writes him every week from home, and sends him interesting bits from the newspaper.  Lately he's been asking her to include the weekly chess column as well, for me.  He just gave me the one from two weeks ago, and I wanted to go through the moves of that week's game."

            "Certainly you may.  I have no objection."  He watched as Arnheiter deftly set up the board and began playing out the game, move by move, referring to the newspaper clipping as he did so, and murmuring a little commentary to himself on the quality of the moves made.  After he'd watched for a while, and the corporal had begun to go over the moves again, more slowly this time, Dietrich coughed, diffidently.  "I do know how to play, Corporal, if you would like, although I am rather out of practice."

            Arnheiter's face lit up with pleasure.  "You do, sir?  Yes, I would like that very much."  He put away the newspaper clipping and reset the pieces in their starting positions.  "Are you sure you would like to, _mein Herr_?"

            "Yes.  It will amuse me as well, and give me something to occupy the time."  At first, the hardest thing was getting used to Arnheiter's miniature chess set; the flat wood pieces were less than an inch square, and it was difficult to move one piece without dislodging others.  There had to be a proper set around somewhere; perhaps they could wangle one from some of the Arabs.  Or, he could ask his sister Elisabeth to send him an inexpensive one from home, though there was no telling when it would arrive.  The Royal Navy was wreaking havoc with the mail and supplies to North Africa coming across the Mediterranean.

            When Dietrich won the first game, he felt gratified and pleased.  However, when the second game also went to him, he became suspicious.  "Arnheiter," he said, "I know you have played in tournaments—you told me that once."

            The corporal swallowed hard.  " _Ja, mein Herr_ , in school…"  He knew he'd been caught...the mouse beneath the cat's claws felt just the same.

            "And did you win?"  Dietrich's gaze was level and stern.

            "Second place, sir." He wished he could lie, but he couldn’t do it.

            "I thought as much, watching you go through the published game in the paper; it was clear that you are both skilled and very experienced.  Now, I, on the other hand, have played only casually, and not in many years.  It is possible, just possible, for me to beat you once by good fortune and perhaps nervousness on your part, but twice?  No.  Either you are so nervous of playing me that you are playing very badly, or you are making deliberate errors in order to ensure that I will win.” By the look in the younger man’s eyes, he knew that was exactly what had happened. “Do you not realize that’s an insult?” 

            Arnheiter's china-blue eyes widened in horror, and he grew pale at the thought that he had insulted his captain's honor, when he had only meant to spare him the embarrassment of losing a game to an enlisted man.  "N-no, _Herr Hauptmann_ , I never meant to—" He couldn't finish the sentence and looked down, blushing with shame.

            The captain smiled gently.  "I thought not.  I was certain that you meant it kindly.  But, never again, Arnheiter.  We may pass the time with chess, if you wish, but play honestly or not at all.  _Verstehen Sie_?"

            "I'm very sorry, _mein Herr_..."

            Dietrich nodded. "Thank you. No doubt you were told it was bad form to beat an officer at chess, but cheating in my favor is still a form of deceit.  I cannot permit that.”

            The fair-haired corporal nodded, understanding. "Yes, sir, you have my word.  I will defeat you if I can."

            "Very well.  If you wish to play another game while we are waiting, we may, but first run to the officers' mess and ask the mess sergeant if there is any more coffee left.  If so, I want some.  This is going to be a long night."

            " _Zu Befehl, mein Herr_ ," the fair-haired corporal replied, abashed, and sprinted off in the direction of the officers' canteen.

            _Good_ , thought Dietrich, _that will give him a chance to recover his composure._

            Presently, Arnheiter returned, walking instead of running, and carefully carrying a steaming jug in his hands, and also a container of food for the captain’s dinner.  "Here you are, sir, all there is.  The mess sergeant was almost ready to pour it out before I came; he said it's very strong by now and you may want to water it a little."

            "Excellent.  Strong coffee is just what we want tonight."  As the young man set the jug down on the desk, Dietrich looked him in the eyes.  “Pour the coffee—there are cups in the desk drawer—and I shall set the board up again.  There is sugar, if you want it, and please put some in mine." 

            “ _Ja, mein Herr_.” On the way back, Arnheiter had had an idea, and was annoyed at himself for not having thought of it earlier. “If I may suggest…in cases where one player is more experienced than the other,” he said cautiously, being very careful to say _experienced_ rather than _skilled_ , “it is customary for the more experienced player to handicap himself. It is called giving odds.”

            “Indeed?” He had not heard of that.

            “Yes, sir. It is considered fair play to equalize the players’ forces. If you will permit me, sir…” The company clerk reversed the board so he had the Black pieces, and he also removed Black’s queen-side rook and one of the king-side pawns. “I propose odds of Rook, pawn, and a move. The first move is yours, _Herr Hauptmann_.” 

            They began once more, and Dietrich noticed at once the difference in play when both men were endeavoring to win, instead of his clerk trying to lose without being obvious. But it felt right this time even though twenty moves later, he had no choice but to resign or be checkmated.  "Thank you,” he said. “Don’t apologize for winning the game—I ordered you to play your best." _I only know how to play chess with armored vehicles, not on a board of 64 squares…_ “So what would you advise an opponent who is long out of practice?”

            The young corporal was taken aback, at being asked to teach something to his officer, but he was just beginning to explain about controlling the center in the opening, and the Sicilian Defense he had used when playing Black, when the telephone rang.  Dietrich was closer, and sprang for it like a cat, grabbing the receiver.  " _Hauptmann Dietrich hier_."

            His eyes widened as the caller identified himself and continued speaking.  " _Ja, ja, ich kann das tun, Herr General,_ " he said.  " _Ja, natürlich..._ " he responded a moment later.  " _Ich werde alles fertig machen.  Sehr vielen Dank, Herr General_."  The call ended, and he stared at the receiver in his hand, in utter disbelief.  "That was General Rommel," he said slowly. “In person.”

            "And?" Arnheiter prompted, afire with curiosity, and taking his courage in both hands.

            Gradually his captain's face lit up, as the import of Rommel's message sank in.  "He said he was delighted to help, and said it was very gratifying that I remembered his days in the mountain division in the last war.  He's getting us the skis at once."  He shook his head, still overwhelmed.  "He thinks it's a splendid idea."  He sat on the desk for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.  He had expected a number of possible results from his letter, but the one thing he had not even remotely considered was that the General should personally ring him up about it.  "In that case, we have much to do.  Arnheiter, can you ski?"

            "I'm from Thüringen.  Of course I can."  He eyed his commander speculatively.  "Can you, _mein Herr_?"  There were no mountains in Schleswig-Holstein; of that Arnheiter was certain. _That whole region is as flat as Oma’s Pfannkuchen… nothing there is higher than 50 meters._

            Dietrich sighed heavily.  "That," he admitted, "is the one flaw in this plan."

           

            The game was now afoot, and things proceeded swiftly.  Within a few days, a truck came to unload supplies, including a long narrow crate.  The supply sergeant driving the truck shook his head and laughed as he brought the bill of lading to be signed by the officer on duty.  "Some idiot sent you skis," he told Lieutenant Bergmann.  "He probably sent your shipment of khaki shirts to the mountain troops."

            "Actually, we requested them," Bergmann replied casually.  "We want our reconnaissance troops to try them on sand, to see if they are efficient as on snow.  Better than walking, _nicht wahr_?"

            The supply sergeant drove away, still laughing.

 

            Later that day, Sergeant Wolfgang Jahnke stuck his head into the HQ tent.  "Where's Hauptmann Dietrich?"

            "Out," said Arnheiter with a shrug.  "I don't know where exactly.  He didn't say."

            "Oh, well.  Bergmann will do.  Is he here?"

            Arnheiter shook his blond head.  "He's out too."  He said no more.

            "Look here, one of them's got to be around somewhere.  They can't both be gone..." Jahnke got a better look at Arnheiter and stopped short.  If ever a cat ate a canary, his expression would be a mirror of the one on the corporal's face.  "All right, _Junge_.  What's up?  And don't say 'nothing'."

            "I don't know where they are.   I promise.  But I do know what they're doing.  Only it's a secret, you understand, Sergeant."

            "Devil take you and your secret.  What is going on, that both of them are away at once?"

            "Bergmann is teaching Herr Hauptmann to ski.  And don’t say it was I who told you!"

            Jahnke's jaw dropped, and then he chuckled at the picture developing in his mind's eye.  " _Ach_ ," he said,  "I see what you mean.  All right, I won't tell."  He thumped Arnheiter's shoulder.  "Let me know when they come back, eh?  I've got something to discuss with the captain."  He turned and left the office, trying to imagine what must be going on.  He wished for a moment that he could be there.

 

            Actually, it wasn't half as bad as Dietrich had imagined.  The soft sand dunes were not nearly as slippery as either wet or powder snow, and skiing cross-country took much less coordination than ice skating, which he had learned in his boyhood.  And on this surface, they showed no tendency to suddenly slide out from under the wearer, unlike ice skates... he'd seen beginning skaters fall down while not actually moving. The chief thing to remember was not to try to do anything quickly, as even something as simple as turning to one side or the other took advance planning of where to put one's feet and how to shift one's weight. The skis, however, were not forgiving of mistakes; more than once the force of inertia made him fall face-forward onto his hands even as he'd turned the skis already to the side. Not only that, but they were six feet long, and one kept crossing their tips.  When that happened, the next step ended in disaster as one inevitably fell over sideways, and like a stranded turtle, was unable to get up without help. The burly Lieutenant Bergmann had the manners and good sense not to laugh at him, and steadily the captain was growing more and more confident of his ability to get from one point to another without self-destruction.  Which was really all that was necessary—that he could lead the hand-picked group of men to the spot and lead them out again... without sacrificing his own dignity in the process.  True, Bergmann could lead this particular expedition; however, having had the idea, Dietrich was loath to turn the execution of it over to someone else when he wanted to see the outcome himself.

            Together, on the skis, they worked their way up a nearby rise, turned and came down it again, repeating the procedure until Bergmann was satisfied that his captain could manage the skis well enough for the purpose at hand.  "We'd best be getting back, sir."  _Herr Hauptmann_ was right; if anything was to be done to recover that gold, it would have be done in a hurry before the Allies could recover it themselves.

            Dietrich nodded, checking his watch.  "Indeed.  Thank you, Bergmann; you've been very helpful."  Now for the attempt, early the next morning.  Time was not on their side, and it was fast running out.

                                                                       <<<<<>>>>>

            "Well, here we are," said Tully Pettigrew.  "Just like the cork in a bottle."

            "Yeah."  Troy didn't like it.  It was too simple—guard this road and keep Jerry from getting past them.  The only way in, said G-2, but sometimes the boys in G-2 lacked imagination.  Troy knew, if he had been on the other side, he'd have seen to it there was more than one way to get in, even if he’d had to invent it himself.  And he had to assume that the Germans would do the same.  "Hitch, Tully, get up there and keep a real sharp lookout.  We can't start assuming that Jerry's stupid."  What really stunk was Davies' ultimatum, with no latitude for interpretation, that they were to stay put where they were.  Anyone could see why, of course; it would be just like Dietrich, for example, to create some elaborate (and no doubt highly explosive) diversion to get them away from there long enough to dash in and grab the spoils.  There was nothing to be done about it, but Troy still wished Davies hadn't given that order.

 

                                                                       <<<<<>>>>>

            _So far, so good,_ thought Dietrich.  He was in the lead, with his twenty men spaced out behind him and Bergmann bringing up the rear.  When he stopped to check the map coordinates, he turned to the right and caught Arnheiter's eye, who smiled back with sparkling eyes.  He, at least, was having the time of his life... to him this was all a grand adventure.  One of Dietrich's intelligence people came up to them effortlessly, having actually been an accomplished ski-racer before the war.  "Right down there, _mein Herr_ ," he said, pointing down into the hollow.  "As they say in children's tales, X marks the spot."  He indicated a red mark on the map. 

            "Yes."  Dietrich nodded.  "Excellent, _Oberleutnant_ Kruger.  Thank you.  Now we wait."

            Kruger's eyebrows shot upward.  "Wait?  What are we waiting for?"

            "Until the diversion starts."  _Intelligence had actually been useful this time_ , he thought, smiling tightly.  He knew exactly who was guarding the approach to this place.

 

                                                                       <<<<<>>>>>

            _So far, so good,_ thought Troy.  Hitch and Tully were standing sentry with field glasses, watchful for anything that looked like an attempt on their position, including keeping an eye peeled for parachutes against the painfully bright sky.  Troy and Moffitt had been taking turns with the radio, in order to catch any possible transmissions indicating an incipient assault. 

            Then Hitch suddenly called out, "Here they come!" and scrambled down the ridge followed by Tully.  The two privates raced to their respective jeeps, yanked the muzzle covers off the guns and made ready as Troy and Moffitt stowed the radio and leaped into their own positions just as the attack got under way.  Three halftracks and a couple of armored cars kept them plenty busy, dodging grenades and firing the two .50s in a pitched battle. 

                                                                      <<<<<<>>>>>>

 

            Dietrich pointed toward the thick dust clouds arising from a spot just out of their sight behind some low hills.  "I think their attention is occupied.  _Vorwärts_ …"  He could hear the distant deep roar of the Rat Patrol's two heavy machine guns as he led the way down the slope.  This part called for intense concentration; if he were going to fall, he was certain it would be on this long downward incline.  He concentrated on sliding one foot in front of the other, but not too fast or the edges would hang up in the sand.  Then he realized that Arnheiter had caught up to him. 

            " _Herr Hauptmann_ , don't do that," he said urgently, but low enough that no one else would hear.  "You'll fall.  Like this instead," he said, and pushed off carefully, both feet together and using his arms and poles for pushing.  That helped; once Dietrich copied that stance, he began to feel steadier, and gained more confidence.

            Once they got down into the soft sandy hollow, Kruger took the lead; using the map and a compass, he found what he thought was the right place and began to dig.  It took him a few tries but in a matter of minutes, he'd exposed the secret cache.  "There you are, Captain," he called out triumphantly.

            Then they had to work fast.  Under Dietrich's supervision, the two men at this end—namely, Arnheiter and another fellow named Müller—lifted the leather bags of gold coin out of their hiding place, and passed them down the line like a firemen's bucket brigade.  As soon as the man at the far end had his pack loaded and on his back, he set off skiing uphill again, back the way they'd come. 

            After several men had departed with their loads, a bright fireball leaped skyward, followed seconds later by the audible blast of an explosion.  Dietrich listened intently: both of those machine guns were still firing.  It had been one of his own vehicles blown up, then.  _Was the gold worth that?_ he wondered, his successful mission dimmed by an inescapable sadness.

                                                                      <<<<<<>>>>>>

            Round 1 had been a hard fight, but they had blown up one of the halftracks with grenades, and taken out the crew of another.  The third one had retreated along with the last armored car.  Troy sat down wearily and grimaced as Hitch slit open his right trouser leg and examined the copiously bleeding wound in his thigh.  The bullet had torn the flesh, but was no longer in the wound.  Messy, but no need to go digging for it under these far-from-ideal conditions, and with Round 2 likely to commence as soon as the Germans regrouped and got some more reinforcements.  With all that gold in the balance, they weren't about to give up after one skirmish with a couple of jeeps.

            The other jeep slewed round and came back to join them, after chasing the retreating enemy for a mile or so.  "I say, are you all right?"  called out Moffitt as he leaped down to the sand.

            "I'll live.  You two OK?"

            "Fine," said Tully, coming over with a canteen, which Troy gratefully accepted.  Moffitt arrived and came over to see to his wounded comrade. 

            "That's a nasty one, old boy.  It's going to need stitching up, I'm afraid."  He smiled wryly.  "I've forgotten my needle and thread, so you'll just have to be patient and let the medics do it," he added while helping Hitch hold the dressing and bind up the wound.

            "Yeah," growled Troy.  "OK, Hitch, that's fine.  Get back up there and look around; let's see if we can spot 'em again.  They can't be far away." 

            Hitch went up, and scanned the whole area as far as he could see from the top of the ridge.  There was something odd, though... and it hadn't been there before.  He couldn't quite make out what it was.  "Hey, Sarge," he called down from his vantage point.  "There's something funny...can you come up here?"

            The leg hurt like the devil, but Troy could still walk on it, and he crawled up the ridge to see what Hitch had pointed at.  "See, over there?  I can't make it out," his driver explained, frowning.

            Troy took the glasses himself and looked.  The late-afternoon oblique sunshine brought into stark relief a long straight line—no, not quite straight—down the dunes on the other side of the valley, across from them.  He couldn't see all the way down to the valley floor where the gold cache was, because of a line of low hills in front of their position, so the long line ended abruptly as his field of view was interrupted by the hills.  That long, slightly wavering line reminded him of something, but what?  He impatiently twiddled the focus knob and tried again to get a sharper image.  That was clearer...it wasn't one long line down the dune, it was two closely-spaced parallel ones; what it looked like was ski tracks, but that was ridiculous on the face of it.  _Ski tracks?_   _What lunatic would use skis out here in the middle of_ — Then he had a horrible feeling that he already knew the answer to that not-so-rhetorical question. _Oh, damn…_

            Without a word, Troy turned and dashed heedlessly down the ridge, nearly falling in a heap as the muscles of his wounded leg screamed in protest, and with Hitch charging down after him, still mystified.  "Let's shake it!" he yelled.  "We gotta get up those hills...get a look down into the valley."

            "What if the Krauts come back?"

            "They won't.  It's too late!"  He slid into the seat beside Hitch.  "If what I think just happened..."

            They approached the brow of the hills and stopped just below there, not to expose themselves.  Troy and Moffitt scrambled up higher and flattened themselves on the sand with their field glasses.  It only needed one look to tell Troy he'd guessed right—the lunatic who was using skis on sand dunes in Cyrenaica was the very same lunatic who'd thought of using crossbows to capture a building full of high explosives; namely, Hans Dietrich.  There was no mistaking the figure standing below them on the valley floor, hands on hips in a posture of complete satisfaction, supervising the last few of a single file of men skiing away from him with loaded packs.  Beside him someone else was standing, and scanning the horizon; he stopped and got the captain's attention, pointing directly to where Troy and Moffitt were watching. Dietrich took the field glasses himself, and looked upward.

            "No point locking the barn door," Troy growled in disgust when they returned to the jeeps.  "Dietrich made off with the horse."

            "Huh?"  Hitch couldn't believe his ears.  "The whole thing?  How'd he do that?"

            "Skis.  And he's got it all...lock, stock, and barrel.  We've got to make tracks."

            "What now?"  Tully asked, as he climbed into the jeep.

            "Head 'em off at the pass...they can't ski all the way."  He unfolded a map, and tried to determine the nearest location where the Germans could have wheeled transport waiting for them.  Moffitt leaned over his shoulder and pointed. 

            "Here looks like the likeliest spot...just south of Sidi Gezer."  That piece of solid terrain was the closest to the sand sea, and nearer to the German lines, than anywhere else on the map.  The only other place where they could have parked a number of vehicles was actually closer to the location of the gold cache, but would have left them much too vulnerable to Allied assault. That location was possible, but it didn't look as good as the other one.

            "Right. Come on, let's shake it." 

                                                                      <<<<<<>>>>>>

            Dietrich turned back to his men.  "They've seen us.  Now we must make haste; they will not sit there tamely while we return to our lines with this."

            "What can they do?"  Kruger was new to this area, and unimpressed.  "Two jeeps and four men?"

            "More than you would believe if I told you.  They will do anything they can to catch us.  If we don't hurry, we will have a fight on our hands."  The last man took up his pack and headed back up the way they'd come, but in reverse order.  On the return route, Bergmann was in the lead and Dietrich was bringing up the rear.

            That turned out to be a mistake.  Dietrich was managing skis well enough for a novice, but he was not used to this, and his legs were trembling from sheer fatigue as he struggled up the slope. He was dropping inexorably behind, so Arnheiter stayed close by, and Konrad Genscher worked his way back to them as well, to help if he was needed.  It looked as if they were going to make it all right, but another man a few yards ahead of them accidentally ended up on a slip-face.  The sand shifted under him, he fell, and the resulting landslide caught Dietrich in it, as well as the two corporals with him.  They knew how to ski and stayed on their feet, but he fell, tumbling helplessly down the dune until he stopped rolling, half-buried in the sand.  Immediately, four men were beside him, digging him out with frantic haste.  " _Herr Hauptmann_ , are you all right?"  Arnheiter asked, worried, as the captain rubbed sand out of his face and shook his head to clear it.

            Dietrich nodded.  "Yes, yes, thank you.  It's all right, I'm not hurt."  He was a little dazed from the abrupt fall, but nothing was broken and he wasn't bleeding anywhere.  Now all they had to do was find his left ski—and the boot that was attached to it.

                                                                       <<<<<>>>>>

            As they roared off to catch up with Dietrich's column, Troy shouted to Hitch, "When we get there, you handle the .50! He was managing to ignore how much his leg hurt, but he couldn't trust it to bear his weight in a wildly swerving jeep... all he needed would be to lose his footing, fall, and get killed or captured.

            Hitch nodded and shouted back.  "Way ahead of you, Sarge... figured that out already." 

            As it happened, there was no need to plan for that.  The hundred-mile chase brought them close enough to eat the Germans' dust clouds, but nothing more.

 

                                                                      <<<<<<>>>>>>

 

            Captain Davies' voice could be heard through half the building.  " _Skis?!_ " he bellowed.

            Moffitt's face was wooden.  "Yes, sir.  Skis.  We never had a chance."  There was no sense in making excuses, after all.

            "Go on."  The red-haired, florid officer struggled to keep his temper under control.

            "Jerry knew exactly what they were about, sir.  They kept up an assault on our position, and pinned us down there so we didn't have a chance to keep our eyes on the valley floor, while their other troops got down there on skis and carried the gold out.  By the time we'd beaten off the attackers, it was too late to do anything about the gold.  It was ghastly...like poor Scott at the South Pole.  They did their level best, and Amundsen still beat them to it."  He didn't remind the captain of the orders he'd given.

            He didn't have to.  Davies sighed, frustrated but with resignation.  True, the Rat Patrol was usually the ace up his sleeve, but Moffitt had made his point.  Everyone knew what had happened to the gallant Commander Scott, the British polar hero—who had perished with his men in the frigid Antarctic thirty years before, because the Norwegians had had skis and sled dogs, and the Royal Navy men had not.  Sometimes you give your all, and lose anyway.   "How's Troy?"

            "Not sure yet, sir.  He was still in surgery when I left to make the report to you."  He checked his watch.  "The nurse said he ought to be in post-op by now, if everything went well."  The wound was a bad one...by the time they'd gotten back, the field dressing, the bandage, and Troy's trouser leg were soaked in blood, and they couldn't get it stopped.  Moffitt's chief worry was that the medics would consider it serious enough to send the wiry American back home.  He hoped not. Without Sam Troy, there was no Rat Patrol.

            "Right.  When you see him, tell him I'll be by in a day or so.  That'll be all, sergeant."  He smiled.  "And don't look so worried—he's as stubborn as they come.  He'll probably be back out there in a week."

 _Provided, of course, that he doesn't lose the leg_ , Moffitt gloomily thought to himself, but he didn't say that to Davies.  "Very well, sir."  He saluted crisply and left the HQ tent, heading back toward the motor pool so he could get a jeep to return to the field hospital and check on Troy.

            The moon had risen and it was growing dark by the time he got there.  The duty nurse recognized him from earlier in the day, and met him with a gentle smile.  "Not to worry, Sergeant," she said warmly.  "He'll be all right, and fit for duty before too long.  It was rather messy, but the bullet lodged in the muscle. There wasn't any fracture or nerve damage."

            "May I see him?"

            "Oh, yes.  He's having a good deal of pain, and he isn't feeling too well—the ether, you know.  But he's awake, and I imagine he'll appreciate some distraction."  She walked him to the post-op area, and showed him where to go.

            "Thank you."  He ducked into the tent, and stood still letting his eyes adjust before trying to walk through the dimness.  It would soon be lights-out; he wouldn't be able to stay long.  After a moment, he was able to see where she'd pointed him to. 

            As soon as he sat down on a canvas chair beside the bed, Troy opened his eyes, groggy but awake.  "Oh, it's you," he mumbled.  "All secure?"

            "All taken care of, and the report made.  Hitch and Tully are drowning their sorrows in the canteen, and I'm here.  How are you, old boy?"

            "Lousy.  Trust me, you don't want to know."  After he'd come round from the surgery, he'd been having recurring bouts of dry heaves.  But maybe, just maybe, the ether-induced nausea was beginning to go away... it had been awhile since the last time he'd had to get the nurse to help him.  How long, he wasn't sure. "How'd Davies take it?"

            Moffitt shrugged, philosophically.  "Through the roof.  But it didn't last long.  After all, without wings, there really wasn't a thing we could have done.  Can't win them all, can we?"

            "Yeah.  Leave it to Dietrich," he muttered in exasperation.  "You've got to hand it to him, he beat us that time, fair and square.  Can't decide whether to buy him a beer someday or wring his neck."

                                                                      <<<<<<>>>>>>

            The next morning, Arnheiter was at the desk surreptitiously having a second cup of coffee when Dietrich opened the flap and limped into the office.  He wisely said nothing, and pretended not to notice that the captain could barely move; it was hard enough for a novice to learn to ski at all, not to mention covering that sort of distance the first day.  He was stiff and aching himself, but he was no novice.  "Good morning, _mein Herr_ ," he said cheerfully, poured another cup for Dietrich, and brought it to him.

            He was surprised by the smile Dietrich gave him.  "Yes.  Yes, it is a very good morning indeed."  The captain sipped gratefully at the coffee.  Just getting to this tent from his own had been bad enough; he hadn't even wanted to think about walking as far as the mess hall, so he hadn't had any breakfast yet.  "I wanted to thank you for your help yesterday.  Did you enjoy the adventure?"

            The younger man grinned, blue eyes alight.  "Oh, yes.  Only..." He shook his head.

            "Only what, Arnheiter?"

            "I am a poor man, Herr Hauptmann.  All that gold..." he said with a sigh.

            "Ah."  The captain was remembering what he'd seen just for a second or two through his field glasses, at the top of the ridge above them. He'd had the briefest glimpse of Sergeant Troy slamming a clenched fist into the sand, in utter vexation and defeat.

            Dietrich's reward had nothing to do with gold.

 

* * *

 

[1] _tr._ joker, smart-aleck (Lit. “fun-bird”).

[2] _wie auf glühenden Kohlen sitzen_ = on pins and needles

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a trip many years ago to the Great Sand Dunes National Monument near Alamosa, Colorado. I and my two friends camped out, wore our Rat Patrol gear, and made sure that my brand-new khaki pants stopped looking like brand-new khaki pants after crawling around in the sand for a weekend.
> 
> While we were there, we saw a strange wavy uneven line traversing a dune in the distance. A look with binoculars showed us that it was a fellow on cross-country skis. And the concept for this story was born.


End file.
